


Trading Places, Bewitched Faces

by Lyssandra_Med



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Voldemort Wins, Blackcest, Body-swap, Dark Hermione Granger, F/F, Freaky Friday But Worse, I have a type OKAY I"M SORRY, Identity Death, Non-Consensual Body Modification, alluded to at least, trading places
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-16
Updated: 2019-11-17
Packaged: 2021-02-07 05:01:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 9,861
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21452416
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lyssandra_Med/pseuds/Lyssandra_Med
Summary: Neither of the two noticed the swirling mist that lingered against the mouths of the unconscious witches.Neither noticed the ebb and flow of a magic far more foreign than anything they had ever dabbled in.And that made all the difference.
Relationships: Bellatrix Black Lestrange/Narcissa Black Malfoy, Hermione Granger/Bellatrix Black Lestrange, Hermione Granger/Narcissa Black Malfoy
Comments: 23
Kudos: 159





	1. Tight Fit

**Author's Note:**

> Long One-Shot broken in half.

In reality the Department of Mysteries was far more of a shifting maze than a rationally laid out structure, more a cobbled together patchwork of brick and mortar that had (through no admitted fault of its own) achieved some rambling semblance of sentience; the space rearranging as  _ it _ saw fit, more so than any request or intention on the Unspeakables part. Case in point; Hermione had knowingly left through the same wide door that she had seen Harry and Luna sprint through, and yet somehow she had found herself walking into another hallway somewhere else entirely without either of them in sight, their voices now coming from  _ behind _ the door she had entered through.

The whole of it defied time and space, rationality and reasonability, the layering of corridors and rooms even further obfuscated when somehow (against all logic,) Bellatrix Lestrange wandered in through the same door as Hermione, even though she had seen her leave via  _ the completely opposite side of the Prophecy Room. _

Madness. Pure, simple, unstoppable madness.

The sudden fight that erupted? No so much.

Within a second of meeting Bellatrix’s eyes, Hermione was pushed immediately to show off her rather underdeveloped abilities; the Dark Witch choosing to duel her with just as much gusto and strength as she would have spent on someone considerably older and wiser, leaving Hermione no recourse but to draw herself into a losing battle. Nowhere to run, nowhere to hide.

Kill, or be killed.

None of her movements or feints were quick enough; Bellatrix was as fast as greased lightning and as pinpoint accurate as a viper, one minute she was here, the next she was there, always at the ready to send a new hex or gaping curse at the younger witch.

None of her attacks were strong enough; Bellatrix was quick to dodge or bat away each and every stunner that was sent her way, nimble enough to dance around while pushing forward with relentless speed, a lopsided grin stretched across her face and mania dancing behind her dark eyes, cackling all the while.

The ground around her was rapidly running out; Bellatrix managed to control the pace and direction of their duel until they were both shoved off into a secondary room, this one filled from top to bottom with bottles and tubes, arcing lightning stretching out around the ceiling. They only had a few meters of space along either side, and with nothing at all to slow Bellatrix’s onslaught, Hermione ducked and hid behind a large glass tube whose insides were filled to the brim with crackling red vapors and innumerable sparks of hidden light.

Of course none of this was helped by the fragility of the room, and soon enough one of Bellatrix’s spells ended up missing its intended target, the glass it impacted shattering into a million tiny shards that buffeted them both at the same time that whatever had been  _ inside _ the tube found its way  _ outside. _

It flew at them both, bundled them all up, shoved its way past their mouths and down their throats until the stench of copper and smoldering moss filled their senses-

\---

Eventually (as was expected)  _ someone _ found the duo. In this instance the pair were found by  _ two _ someones'; Farric Avery, his robes half singed off and desperation in his eyes, and a supremely disoriented Nymphadora Tonks, her normally iridescent hair a shade of muted chartreuse.

Both wormed their way in within a second or two, a temporary peace treaty agreed to by solemn eyes and a nod of their heads, wary but in agreement that their only reason for meeting was the rescue of their respective fighters.

Farric knew that he could best the little Auror, he knew he would most likely best any kind of dueling spirit that she put up; but that would end up stealing away what little time remained, leaving him open and easy pickings for the other Auror’s soon to arrive.

Nymphadora knew that Avery could beat her, that he would likely smash any of her defenses to pieces; and if she failed Hermione in this it was likely she would be taken along as well, as a hostage or a corpse. She let it go, far too worried about getting the unconscious witch some much-needed medical attention than she was eager to strike one final (and ultimately ineffectual) blow.

Neither of the two noticed the swirling mist that lingered against the mouths of the unconscious witches.

Neither noticed the ebb and flow of a magic far more foreign than anything they had ever dabbled in.

And that made all the difference.

\---

The world greeted Hermione through the thick film of what must have been the single worst headache she had ever experienced; the stumbling and fitful process of rejoining the living made all the more arduous by the immediate realization that yes, she would much prefer to remain dead to the world. Unfortunately the blistering pain behind her eyes wasn’t giving up without a fight, and seemed to throw itself into a frightening pain at the mere thought of being banished. Her pulse throbbed within her temple, nausea deep within her gut boiling and roiling around, her body twisting and turning as she fought to shove her face deeper into the pillow underneath her. Bits and pieces of her last memories fell into place as she lay there in the midst of pretending she was fine, laborious and annoying as she attempted to correlate what she remembered with where she was.

Simple reasoning would say that she was either back in her bed at Hogwarts, napping at the Infirmary, or lying in her own bed at home.

Well, she could strike two off that list.

There was no insistent pressure as Crooks attempted to worm his way beneath her covers towards the warmth of her body heat, nor was there any indication that her dorm-mates were up and about. Neither could she hear the soft voice of Madam Pomfrey as she made her rounds, or the bickering and jostling of either Harry or Ron by her bedside; a constant presence since her second year, she was quite certain that were she there, then they would be as well. The last nail in the coffin was the warm rays of sunshine pouring through a window at her side, the long rays heating her to a comfortable temperature in such a way as to indicate she wasn’t near Hogwarts at all.

No; this heat was far more likely streaming in through the massive window at her home, the bedroom was built to face the east and filled up with more than enough light to give Crooks a perfect place to nap whenever they were home. Though it  _ would _ be unusual for her to be back at home so early after that fight, unless Dumbledore had made the decision to send her home after all was said and done. After all, they had been waiting around until the last moment to fight back against Umbridge, and Harry’s vision had managed to coincide with the night before they would leave for vacation. 

In its own way it made sense that Dumbledore might want to send them all home as soon as possible, likely in service to keeping any rumors or lies from spreading beyond the boundaries of the Ministry.

Of course that now left her with an unbearable headache and nothing to fix it with; Muggle pain relievers were oh so less effective than the simple Wizarding counterpart, and so much more frustrating to use. Hermione sighed into the pillow beneath her lips as she stretched and pulled at uneven muscles that were screaming through a blanket of pain and soreness, her exhales more a moan of lingering pain than anything else. She worked on flexing her fingers, her toes, testing as much as she could within the rather constricting confines of-

_ ‘What.’ _

Dark eyes flew open to stare at the rather unusual sight of a canvas stretched across a four-poster bed; the material a shifting green that seemed to sway and reflect the soft light that bounced in from the window to her left. She twitched, rolling onto her back at the same moment that she bit her lip in trepidation, hands moving ever so slowly with a shake and shiver as she pressed warm palms against her abdomen.

Fabric; material twisted tight and rigid across the plane of her stomach.

Lace; frills and accompaniments just as excessive as a garnish on a meal.

Metal; steel bones running top to bottom, a row of silver clasps running down the center

_ ‘I’m… I’m wearing a corset. To bed.’ _

Hermione tilted her head to stare down the length of her torso, headache thinning around the edges while colors blossomed into existence in a sparkling radiance that timed itself to her movements.

She  _ was _ wearing a corset.

Dark. Black, even. And beneath it she was clad in a dress of the same color, legs free and clear beneath the wispy fabric. One foot was stuck halfway inside a boot, her other foot left bare and free to wriggle atop the bed. The strangeness was a compounding issue, each and every question that she  _ had _ been asking were suddenly replaced with new ones that locked themselves up somewhere in the back of her mind. The headache only aggravated things, her eyes swimming as she fought to pull herself from the swirling and churning eddy currents of pain mixed in with confusion.

A grunt of pained exertion and two seconds of tilting vertigo left Hermione pulling herself up, her still booted foot rolling side to side until the offending item dropped down to the floor below her, lost somewhere at the edge of the bed. Her arms strained with soreness while her eyes clamped shut, the headache building to near blinding proportions as she moved.

The first thought to make its way past her fogged mind was that she was most definitely hallucinating; obviously her mind was obfuscating what she was  _ really _ seeing, wherever she truly was, and locking it all behind the thin veneer of a temporary madness. That would easily explain both corset and her garb, as well as the particular decor of this room. Pearly off-white walls, a green bed, a mahogany wardrobe that sat opposite to a matching vanity mirror and dresser. There were two doors sat into perpendicular walls; one closed and painted in white with an ornate silver serpent as a handle, the other much the same except opened to reveal a bathroom that lay beyond.

Decidedly  _ not _ her first choice in home decorating, that much was for sure.

Unfortunately that didn’t help her in regard to how  _ real _ all of it felt.

Hermione could  _ feel _ the way that the corset dug into her hip bone when she bent at an awkward angle.

She could  _ feel _ the bunched up lightness of the lace draping over her legs, the coolness of the lengths that sat hiked up around her knees as well as the skirt that was itself all soft and silken.

The pillows piled up behind her back, the striking comfort of the down comforter that she was laying on; she could feel each and every bit of this, she could taste the sterility of the room, she was-

The faintest sound of knocking began against the closed door, all of Hermione’s questions and confusions brought to a standstill as she waited with bated breath. Her face reshaped into a mask of incredulity when a distinctly feminine voice (one that she remembered all too well,) spoke beyond the room, “Bellatrix? Dear? Are you decent?”

\---

Pulling herself up from the realm of Morpheus was a chore; not because the effort was hampered by any sort of pain or unease, no, she was reluctant to rejoin the waking world for one simple reason.

Bellatrix was comfortable. Completely, and totally, at ease. 

For what must have been the very first time in nearly twenty years.

There was nothing in the world that could pull her from the peaceful lull of a good night’s rest, all the hard work behind her and nothing left to do except-

“Hermione?”

Bellatrix’s eyes opened up to a bleary world filmed with the last dredges of her good sleep, the voice bringing her a mild confusion as she waited on it to begin again. She ran a hand through her curls as much she could, languid and tired even as she questioned what she had heard.

“Hey,” the speaker shuffled and moved closer to her, “Hermione? You alright there?”

_ ‘What in the Hell is this? And who in the buggering fuck is  _ ** _Hermione_ ** _ ?’ _

The longer she thought on it, the more the name began to feel somewhat familiar; it felt as if she had most definitely heard it at some point in time (even if she had no idea of when), but as she lay there thinking the person standing by her bed took her silence as leave to begin speaking again.

“You gave us one helluva fright there ‘Mione, Tonks said that you were almost a goner ‘fore she got there.”

Bellatrix wiped her eyes as she prepared to lean up and tell whoever was having their conversation to  _ fuck the fuck off, _ when the name that had passed by his lips managed to reach the logical portions of her brain.

Tonks.

_ Tonks. _

** _Tonks!_ **

Bellatrix’s heart began to slam against her ribcage, the sudden thought that she had been captured rooting itself in her mind-

_ ‘Dementors,’ _ most likely guarding all the doors,  _ ‘They’ll send me back to Azkaban!’ _

A bright flash of light sparked its way into existence within the center of her mind; twin points of green and red commingling and growing from a faint shadow to a blinding flash that moved forward to eat away at everything within her. She could feel strong arms wrap themselves around her shoulders, two bodies managing to just barely haul her back down onto the mattress, whispering (or perhaps shouting, she couldn’t rightly say which it was,)  _ something _ into her ears.

She couldn’t tell, couldn’t know, the light overpowering her sudden headache into a pain the likes of which she had never once encountered.

_ ‘I’m Bellatrix- _

\---

_ ‘I’m Hermione-’ _

“Bellatrix? Bellatrix please, I know you’re in there. Let me in, please.”

_ ‘How did I end up here?  _ ** _Why_ ** _ am I here?  _ ** _Why in the name of bloody fucking Merlin is Ms. Malfoy at the door?!_ ** ’

Hermione stood on wobbling feet, her balance all off and body listing to the side as she made her way towards the vanity mirror, and her first chance at seeing herself since battling the madwoman the night prior. Or had it been more than a night? The thought struck oddly at her sense of time and space, not helped along at all by sudden feeling of  _ wrongness _ accompanying her movements. She had her suspicions on what had happened, had worries and fears for sure, but a quick glance at the mirror would sort it all out-

_ ‘No…’ _

Hermione’s rage and sorrow filled a scream that rolled throughout the Manor; the tone and tenor so offkey that Narcissa had no recourse but to smash the door inwards with a sudden  _ Bombarda, _ not even waiting to wonder  _ why _ she had screamed. Her arrival couldn’t have been more fortuitous however, entering the room with wand out and blue eyes wide at just the right moment to catch Hermione as she fell backwards into unconsciousness.

\---

When the attack, or seizure, or whatever the bloody blue blazes was happening to her began to stop and recede back into the depths from which it came, Bellatrix could do no more than lay backwards into the cot and sigh. Her body had been strapped down against the bedframe with thick loops of white cotton braid that brought her more memories of good times spent in her bedroom with various daughters of the political hierarchy than something that Auror’s would use, more reminiscent of a make due control rather than cautious safekeeping. Her ankles and wrists chafed at the material where it held her down and pulled her tight, the hold just limp enough to allow her uninterrupted blood flow without compromising her inability to move.

But she could still see, she could still hear, and within only a few moments she ceased her efforts and started to profusely (if vaguely) apologize to whoever was in the room beside her, no matter the lack of any real sincerity.

_ She wasn’t herself. _

She knew that now; knew it as the truth from the moment she stopped to think on why they had been uttering  _ that _ name, and only saw it confirmed by the view of bronzed skin stretched over a weak musculature that left her panting in exertion.

She  _ was  _ Bellatrix Lestrange; scion of the Black Family, Right Hand to the Dark Lord, Brightest Witch of the Age.

And  _ now _ she was Hermione Granger; a Mudblood, a child, usurper to one of her titles.

She was also the brain that powered The Boy, her Lord’s Ire; One Third of a Trio, and ingratiated beyond reproach to their little group.

_ ‘... I can make this work,’ _ she mused in the safety of her mind, toiling almost instantly at plans and options,  _ ‘I can make this useful…’ _

It was more a wonder than a certainty that led her to blanketing her mind with Occlumancy, a surprised hum burbling from her throat as she felt her shields fall thick around her Inner Self; all in the nick of time as well when the Old Goat fell into her vision, his appearance marked by a stunningly impertinent probe as he tried to look inside her mind. He was buffeted, pushed away, cut off from any point of access and left scrabbling against her walls as she drowned his attempts in the seas that ringed her Fortress, an ugly smirk turning up one corner of his lips in a flash that was quickly settled back into the mask of Grandfatherly kindness.

Bellatrix knew she needed a plan, she knew she needed one fast; there was absolutely no way that she could proclaim herself to be the Mudblood, no way that she could trick them all into thinking that she was fine.

That, unfortunately, left her only one option.

Bellatrix sucked in a lungful of air as she lifted her head and looked around as much as her bonds would allow her, “Not that I don’t appreciate all the help, but… Who exactly are you lot?” That shut the whole lot of them up right quick; six pairs of eyes all turning to scrutinize her with so much force that Bellatrix couldn’t hold back the cold shiver that wormed its way down her spine.

The redhead coughed, face a pained grin, “What’re you talkin’ about ‘Mione?”

_ ‘The Weasel,’ _ Bellatrix noted, her eyes burning holes as she stared back into his face.

“Now, now, let’s all not crowd the poor girl. Off you lot go, I’ll call you back in a minute or two.” The woman who spoke pushed the group before her bed off to the side, her eyes and words brokering no argument or diversion. The woman was tall and matronly; all gussied up in a nurses uniform but wizened beyond the point of being anything other than an aged crone. Soon enough the Old Goat, Minerva, and the Crone remained, each of them once again staring at her with pointed eyes and downturned lips.

The Old Goat seemed to shuffle in the unease before smiling down at her, “Now Ms. Granger, could you please tell us what you  _ do _ remember?”

_ ‘Is this a test? Or does he buy it?’ _

"Yes, well,” Bellatrix’s voice fumbled to a stop as she really  _ listened _ to herself for the first time.  _ ‘Do I- does  _ ** _she_ ** _ really sound like that? Gods, I’m so young!’ _ She mouthed silent pleas before continuing, “Well I know where I am, Hogwarts Infirmary. I know that you’re Albus Dumbledore, and Professor McGonagall- I, I’m sorry to say that I don’t recognize you Ma’am,” she inclined her head at the old woman, “Though I have to admit you seem familiar.”

The Crone smiled, eyes shifting nervously back towards the Goat, “Well my name is Madam Pomfrey, I run the Infirmary and I’ll be at your service should you need it. Anything else?”

“I don’t know who I am, besides my name at least.”

The clustered group of staff members all turned to look at one another after she said that, her heart rate rising slightly as she took it all in.

_ ‘They believe it!’ _

\---

Hermione was having one hell of a very bad day; her looks, and the accompanying feelings, all proved it.

Hermione had almost immediately been levitated to a neutral weight after falling backwards into unconsciousness (and Mrs. Malfoy’s surprisingly strong grip), body lifted up to float beside the witch as she was maneuvered into a settee amid one of many sitting rooms; her body resting and recovering as her mind slowly filtered back up to itself.

_ ‘I’m Bellatrix-’ _

Somehow, someway, she had found herself residing in the body of a Dark Witch. Polyjuice? Perhaps, but unlikely. The effects of the potion weren’t meant to be long-lasting, and she failed to think of a single moment during which she could have been dosed. Unless it happened after she was rendered unconscious during the fight? But why? What advantage or purpose would that serve?

Transfiguration? Once again, unlikely at best; if she had been the target of strange magics that twisted and formed her to match the Dark Witch, if she had been purposefully changed to match the woman then there would have been quite serious drawbacks beyond the headache and general soreness. And to top that off she would have still had access to  _ her _ magic, not this horrid miasma of darkness that swirled beneath her veins. The grasping heat of it pulled her backwards into languid introspection despite her precarious position on the settee, heartbeat pounding and spiking until it was fast approaching a trot.

No, surely this was a darker magic, something stranger and more unknown. It still made little sense for exactly  _ why _ she would find herself here; the only reason she could make out was that she must have become Bellatrix’s doppelganger at some point before the fight at the Ministry was over. Surely her own friends wouldn’t have abandoned  _ her _ while she was there, and she could see no reason at all for why the notorious Death Eaters would bring her along.

And all that ended up bringing her to another question, one that she lacked any real ability to determine.

_ Where the Hell was Bellatrix Lestrange? _

Unfortunately the chance to solve that particular riddle was interrupted by the pragmatic reality of  _ keeping her fucking mouth shut, _ as Mrs. Malfoy returned to asking questions at random intervals, all of which she could only stare through with half closed eyes and an open mouth.

Until  _ He _ walked in.

_ Voldemort.  _

_ Tom Riddle.  _

Hermione stared at him with and open mouth and opened mind, unable to keep herself stuck to the role she had been assigned. His red eyes were narrowed, head tilted, a hand shoving forward through her mind to stick and muck about the middle of her thoughts, another in the long line of pains that she found herself inundated with. There was no hope of saving her memories, no hope of hiding it all away; she knew of Occlumency and had been working on practicing the skill but this was no mere feint by an untrained Legillimens, and thus she had no hope of stopping it. Certainly she wouldn’t be successful at this, not untested and untrained as she was.

“Ms. Granger,” he hissed out in a tone that leaned more towards amusement than displeasure, “What a pleasant surprise.”

\---

If Bellatrix sat down, thought about it, and was honest with herself, she had expected…  _ More.  _ Or she had at least expected something more than  _ nothing _ from the so oft esteemed Light.

There was no Veritaserum.

There were no overt requests to scan her with Legilimency.

Even the Old Goat had immediately backed off once he had run into her barriers; either shame or reluctant admiration for her skills now keeping him in check, no further attempts or snide remarks.

Of course that wasn’t to say that there wasn’t at least  _ some _ suspicion; the sheer likelihood of jumbled memories occurring was just so laughably low that they had no choice but to scan her, pronounce  _ Finite _ multiple times, and shove so many disparate potions down her throat that she felt she would be sick. And of course they only proved useful to  _ her, _ unlocking many of her memories from the time before she had served the Dark Lord, and a multitude of endless agony that had been lost to Azkaban.

Of course Pomfrey remained confused at the situation, Severus as well once they roped him into the room, but with no clear avenue to make a clean escape she was stuck with propping up this ridiculous charade. An attempt on the Boy’s life was a tempting prospect, but he belonged to her Lord after all. A quick Avada might have solved all their issues but he was the Dark Lord’s prize, not hers, and so she was left with nothing else to do but sit there and respond to their questions with the same answers said in a multitude of different ways.

“Well, seeing as we’ve exhausted our options, I believe  _ these,” _ the old Goat rumbled from the side of the room, two glass phials filled with silvered liquid clinking in his hand, “can help.”

\---

_ Cruciatus; _ also known as the torture curse, a spell only useful for pain, excruciating pain.

_ Mens Extorqueo Cruciatus; _ an improvement borne on mangled Latin, focused so that it only fractured the mind.

Hermione had a front row seat to witness just how much Voldemort liked both spells, just how intensely he craved the absolute domination of another’s mind and will. He twisted, sneered, forced wicked thoughts and images down into her mind at a rate and volume that left Hermione a panting mess, broken through and through with splayed limbs and shallow breaths. It was Hell.

But oh had he seen things, things only Merlin would dream of; a depth and breadth to Magic that he forced inside her cranium with all the grace and gentleness of a jackhammer that left her feeling fit to burst with it all.

_ The first meeting with Dumbledore, when he had still lived at the Orphanage and not quite found his footing as a budding Dark Lord. _

_ Ancient Parselmagic stolen from Mages in India, backed up and enhanced by Salazar Slytherin’s own notes on the subject. _

_ The farcical Trial of Grindelwald, and the sordid affair that bound him to the Leader of the Light. _

_ The process for unsupported Human flight; a recipe of his own design that proved far more useful (and deadly) than first intended. _

_ Bellatrix Black; a young witch dedicated to a cause she didn’t understand, her body and mind twisted and warped beneath a feverish fanaticism in the hopes that  _ ** _He_ ** _ could save her. _

_ The full Prophecy concerning his battle with Harry, Dumbledore’s insane gambit, all the trials and Wizengamot sessions where the Light sought to extinguish an entire culture, all in the name of ushering in a new one. _

_ All the Hypocrisy, all the Lies, all the Truths- _

** _Everything._ **

Hermione broke. Fell to shards, a twisted remnant of who she had once been.

Upon the marbled floor of the Manor, with her head cradled in Narcissa’s lap, Voldemort standing tall above her, Hermione Granger shattered into a spiderweb of pain and mental anguish.

“Who are you?” he asked, his voice sibilant and soothing, Narcissa’s hand on her head rubbing calming motions to her screaming mind.

“I don’t know,” she replied, all honesty and truth, “I don’t know.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is lacking polish but i'll finish a revise later; this is it, all done.

** _One Month Later_ **

Truth be told, Bellatrix was rather… well, ..._ bored. _

The Boy had roped her into joining him on a trip to visit the Weasel’s at the Borrow (apt name that, filled up with vermin as it was), and now here she stood. Impassive. Tired. _ Bored out of her skull. _

Every fiber of her being was telling her to run, or kill, or maim all those around her, and yet she wasn’t. She was helping the youngest Weasel with Charms work instead, for reasons she still didn’t truly believe.

_ Dull _ reasons, as it were. And most unfortunately she _ had _ to, seeing as she had no voice or say in the matter whatsoever.

** _‘We know who you are. Do not arouse suspicion. Ingratiate yourself, and await further instructions.’_ **

The note had been written on a slip of parchment paper that was passed off to her right before the end of the year, by her young nephew; sour expressions and suspicious eyes had colored his face as he passed off the sealed envelope, his fingers rubbing apprehensively against the large and ostentatious wax seal that declared the contents for a Black only. She had stared at the envelope for what felt like forever, wondering and worrying about the contents. 

Would her Lord assume she had abandoned the Cause? That she had gone rogue once presented with a relatively young and healthy body?

Her fears were allayed however by the actual contents of the note, after she finally found the courage to open it, that was. Good news; her Lord knew _ who _ she was, and with enough luck she would be reunited sometime soon, sent back to her rightful body and standing by his side once again. Bad news? She had to tolerate the company of the Light until then. 

She just needed to keep her wits about her and refrain from killing anyone, continue playing the amnesiac until such a time as it was no longer a necessary cover. A task that was, to be quite frank, becoming harder and harder with every passing hour. 

Mostly on account of the Muggles, more than the Weasels.

She had known that the Mudblood had parents, knew that she had been birthed and whelped by Mud; but that little bit of abstract knowledge hadn’t prepared her for actually having to _ live _ and interact with them both. 

The year-end had come for Hogwarts not a day or two after her revival, and all the children holed up in the Castle had run down to Hogsmeade to catch that ridiculous red train and a slow ride home. Trepidation and ire had filled her mind during the whole of the trip, and it was with angry thoughts and apprehension that she had wandered out of the carriage and off onto the platform with a photograph (a _ mundane _ photograph even!) clutched in one hand and a dark form of hatred seeping in through her veins. Mud picked her up (aware as they were of the fact that their _ daughter _ had suffered an accident that made her different from when they had left her), Mud dropped her off back at the small domicile that was closer to the servants quarters than the grand home Bellatrix had lived in during her youth, and then Mud had left to go one about their day.

Odd that. 

There wasn’t much of a shock to realizing that the Muggles and their daughter had a rather strained relationship, but even she was somewhat surprised to see just how little they seemed to care about their only daughter. Both of them seemed far and away too preoccupied with their occupations rather than their daughter, and had both simply settled on welcoming her home, hugging her (which she shivered and stiffened under) and then left her some Muggle currency for food. 

Odd. Degrading. Bugger it all though; she wasn’t here to evaluate the state of Hermione Granger’s home life, she was here so as to eventually strike a blow against the Order, a task that she was dead set on accomplishing no matter what.

The one boon to her task?

_ Magic. _ Of course. Whatever else would it have been?

Either due to the girl being older than she had appeared, or perhaps some wayward effect of being a forty odd year old woman trapped within the confines of a teenagers husk, the Trace was made inactive. She could practice using this body and enhancing it as much as she wanted with no worry or hint of fear, no one at all within the Ministry able to know she was doing anything at all. Within the first week of arriving at the Muggle’s residence, Bellatrix took the freedom of their absence for an afternoon trip to Diagon. A quick _ Apparition, _ some time spent wandering (during which no one at all looked out of sorts at her, no one hassled her or called for Aurors to detain her, Merline it was a bloody fucking miracle), and then it was off to Knockturn in search of all sorts of ritual ingredients.

So yes; she may be stuck with the Weasels for the moment but Bellatrix had plans, many thoughts and ideas that she hadn’t even touched since she had first left that blasted school behind to marry a klutz that she hated. She would do her task, give it her all, but who said she wasn’t allowed to have some fun along the way?

Comforted by her station and the abilities soon to be at her command, Bellatrix fell back into the present and the Weasel that perched next to her, ignoring the incessant tugging that had built up over the week. It pulled and ached but did not overcome, and no matter how longingly she stared out westward, she dared not leave. Her attention was honed onto maintaining her facade, building her skills, and the longing pull of whatever exactly was out there could wait.

She had time.

\---

Hermione was damn near reaching a blind rage; all her hair strewn about her face in a nest of twisted curls that was knotted more than not, her pupils dilated and teeth bared as her wand shone forth with a red light that crackled and popped. The toy laying at her feet was back to writhing and moaning in pain, his lungs too broken to allow anymore proper screams. His face pinched up the longer she held the spell, a caricature of the warrior that he had once professed to be. 

Hermione danced around his form, sinking deeper into the pull of magic, her wand and her emotions in tune as she relaxed for as much as she could while waiting on him to fully break.

Alastor Moody; Mady-Eye to those who were uncaring of his wrath.

And Hermione was nothing at all if not uncaring.

The past thirty days since she had been discovered had been both a wondrous Heaven and terrifying Hell; days on end filled with torture and disaster, all interspersed with History lessons and practice that left her reeling just as much as the wracking snaps of pain. In time her mind was split open to revel in the truths that the Light would more kindly ignore, lies that they would cherish and champion in their place. 

And now, chief among those truths and the current target of her ire, was Mad-Eye himself; a quick snatch and grab having whisked him away from his home, and down into her dungeons.

Or her sister’s. Narcissa’s. Mrs. Malfoy’s?

To be quite honest she wasn’t really sure of what terminology to use when it regarded her Sister-Not-Sister; a chasm having bloomed between them that was only reinforced by her broken mind occupying Bellatrix’s body, her limbs powered on by a brain that was stuffed full of Hermione Granger the Brightest Witch of the Age and Memories of Bellatrix Black Lestrange, _ also _ the Brightest Witch of Her Age.

Not to say that she didn’t _ enjoy _ the woman, she was lovely company for those horrid nights when what was real and what wasn’t all merged down into one. But Hermione knew the truth about herself.

She was a mixture.

A mutation.

Aberration given form.

She was her own being now; no longer the Right Hand to the Dark Lord, but certainly no longer the Best Friend to the Boy. 

The man at her feet managed to fill the space with a scream once again, wrenching her stumbling mind back to her immediate surroundings.

His crime, the reason for his being here and the catalyst for her performance, was a horrid truth that had been long covered up, worse than she had imagined and slotted nicely into Dumbledore’s idea of _ only _ duality; there were no shades of gray. Alastor Moody, once upon a time in the middle of the First British Wizarding War, had murdered someone. They had been aligned to the Dark, a lesser vassal to one of the Great Houses, but it was murder all the same.

A sanctioned killing at the behest of the rogue Order, a sanctioned murder in service to the Light. That action would have made him a target for sure, but it was his actions in the aftermath that had been truly unforgivable; infanticide. The couple's child was slain without a moment of thought, not a single care in the world for the horrors they committed, better off dead rather than growing up to remember what had been lost, better off dead than a future soldier to another Dark Lord. Mad-Eye had gone about this task innumerable times, all against Lesser Houses who had no standing within the eyes of the Ministry, no method to approach, not unless they felt up to admitting their part within a Revolution, and to the surprise of no one, no one had.

The whole thing sickened Hermione; twisted and tugged at the fraying morality that had been shoved down her throat by life within the Muggle world and the lessons beaten into her head while at Hogwarts. It pulled at the sagging edges of her sanity with a pinpoint precision that left her open, left her suggestible.

And the Dark Lord was oh so very willing to suggest all manner of things.

_ Theory; _ he gave her explanations and instruction on Dark rituals that had been outlawed by the Ministry, stripped from common lexicon, left to languish and disappear until only those families that followed the Old Ways even knew they had existed, and even then never practiced under the ever present fear of persecution.

_ Reality; _ he personally oversaw her education with hours long courses on Politics and their importance to his stately alliances, from all the treaties he had forged with Magical Beings and Creatures, from Trolls to Werewolf Packs (each of them a sentient race that faced undue persecution from a faction of the Light that saw them as nothing more than intolerable, unthinking beasts), to the varied and nuanced role that Vampire Land Management played to borders (and the current Ministry’s lack thereof).

_ Hypocrisy; _ he exposed the Light’s rabid fascination with the worst aspects of the Revolution, and the overblown rhetoric that had been used (then, and now) to demonize the Dark. Did they all desire to murder each and every Muggleborn, or drown them all beneath the chains of servitude? Yes, some of them. But power begot power, and the Dark Lord needed the fanatical support that accompanied the money of the Old Families in service to his stance against the Ministry. That those particular firebrands had been phased out? Early on, and with extreme prejudice? That soon into their nearly decade long conflict, methods for integration instead of isolationism with the Muggle world had been put forth? They were monsters, yes, but monsters with the purpose of supporting a _ greater _society.

All of it, gone. All of it, wiped clean, the truth so buried beneath the Light’s fervent proclamations of Pureblood Ideology that their words carried the practice onwards into the future. If the world say they were horrid, with no chance of listening to them otherwise, why struggle to prove them wrong at all?

Did those facts and realities make the Dark out to be the world’s saviors?

No; Hermione held no illusions about that, she knew she was sitting in the Dark’s camp, knew she was sleeping under the roof of a family that craved one Ruler for all Eternity (and sometimes with, in Sister-Not-Sister’s case). A King, one who would rule over a Kingdom built upon merit and ability, rather than monetary value and archaic societal norms.

Progress.

Change.

Even Dark, it was better than the stagnant death that the Light pushed for.

Her recent descent into a mania that had been induced by hours and hours of relentless torture may have played a little more than a small part in her decision to join hands and sing kumbaya with her once-enemies, but even then what of it?

She was happier here (within this body, in this house, in those arms) with all the truths laid bare for her to see, no longer the token Mudblood. No longer the glorified Pet. No longer the boorish girl that could solve complex Arithmantic equations on the back of a fucking napkin.

She cackled.

He broke.

And the world continued turning.

The incessant tug that pulled against her heart was abated for the moment, subsumed as it was beneath all her adrenaline and purpose. It could wait, and so could _ she, _ for they would move on soon enough.

\---

** _Six Months Later _ **

For the first time in quite a long while, Bellatrix was happy. _ Truly _ happy, even.

Tonight, _ this _ night, movement and action and finally-

_ ‘Forest, Midnight, truss him up. Let no one know.’ _

The quick letter was little more than a scrap of parchment that had been delivered to her via Draco, his face twisted up with all the finality of someone delivering a death sentence, rather than a note. Maybe he knew what it was. Maybe he had read it? Either way, no matter if he had or not, his throat had bobbed as he called - _ Her _ \- name, his eyes avoiding her in just the same manner that he had all year. She had snatched it from his pale grip, pushed him away, and then watched as he scampered off with all the frightened grace of a startled puppy.

Cute, if decidedly wimpy, but then he always did take after Luci more often than not.

Past that point it hadn’t been the work of minutes to convince the Boy that he should follow her out that night; he was always oh so very paranoid (and oh so very right) about her darling nephew’s status as a Death Eater, and simply dropping a hint or two that she believed him to be up to no good was more than enough proof to reel him in. 

Draco will be where? _ Here. _

Draco will be doing what? _ I don’t know. _

** _But we should find out._ **

A few quick minutes passed by before she was able to convince the Boy to leave the Weasel behind, mostly on account of reminding him that Weasel was a distraction at best, a love-addled fool at worst. He would be a liability; one they couldn’t trust if they were _ really _ heading out to danger.

_And he agreed!_ _The bloody fucking idiot _**_agreed!_**

After that it was merely a waiting game of sitting around to watch the clock, and then heading out from the Castle under the cover of both darkness and the Boy’s Invisibility Cloak (a specific item that Bellatrix had more than a few theories about), and off through the sleeping hallways.

Both of their footsteps were muffled, their voices hushed, bodies pressed close as they hid beneath the Cloak and out towards the Forbidden Forest. 

Bellatrix idly twisted a lock of hair, her curls no longer the brown that had belonged to the one who had owned this body before she arrived, all the lengths now far more like her own. Black curls that looped in on themselves in twists and rivulets more than the prior head of bushy and gnarled hair, her face and her form both adjusting as the days had turned to weeks, and then months. Bellatrix knew she couldn’t be quite sure of it (as there was oh so little time to theorize or experiment), but she had more than half a hunch that her continuing metamorphosis was tied more into the magic that had switched them, than her mind taking ownership of the body. Some odd and not yet settled variance was still attempting to right the wrongs between body and mind, and working damned slowly at it, if she was right.

Her copper complexion had continued to cool, her eyes receding from a honeyed yellow and off towards the color of smoldering wood chips, darker yes, but a mixture still. The magic she had been granted was slowly warping as well, no longer so Light and fragile as it had been, both her continued changes and the rituals she had dabbled in during the summer months had soured it considerably, making the thin tendrils that wormed from her heart down to her wand all the heavier for it, until her aura was nearly as Dark as it had been.

There were other, more subtle changes, changes that began to alter her bones and flesh, things that left the Boy staring at her with wide eyes and a scattered mind; even the Medi-Witch had noticed them, taking her aside one night and asking if everything was all right.

A quick response that she was fine got the woman off her back for a short amount of time, but if _ this _ night hadn’t come, then she was sure she would have been strapped back into a cot and scanned innumerable times until _ something _was found. Other changes were more internal than external; the middling tug against her soul had increased its pull considerably, for one.

With very little time and effort she could pick out where her Other was, divine the location almost at will, her nights now spent with a mind much like her own invading all her dreams and waking fantasies. Was she clutched between the throes of madness? Was it wrong for her to feel such an attraction to what her Other had become? To feel a desire to lay beneath her as her body lay wracked beneath the power of a _ Cruciatus? _

Their attraction was just as magnetic as it was broken, a bond formed of magic more than reality, but it was present still the same. Beneath the blanketing darkness of night she would stuff fingers between her thighs, heart beating a heavy pace that left her panting and biting at the skin of her arm, a confusion not unlike that she had felt when she had first bedded Cissa clouding her mind, arousal turning into affection when she felt the Other respond the same.

Crazy, twisted, _ insane _ as this all was; they were broken halves to the same twinned soul, and she wouldn’t change it at all. At the very least it managed to make the passing of lonely nights easier on her mind, even if there were only phantom emotions stretching between them instead of intellectual conversation and true physical sensation.

But all that was soon to be undone, soon they would be united, soon her feet would pass out onto the well trod path below the canopy of the Forest, and her wand would light up against the Boy’s back.

_ Soon. _

\---

Hermione saw the flash of red before she heard the whip crack of magic; a stumbling body falling out from thin air that seemed to shimmer and reflect with a hidden light. The hand upon her shoulder dropped away, fingers releasing her after giving a minute squeeze of reassurance. Rabastan (such a better person to be around since his brother had an _accident_,) quickly moving to follow in her wake, his directions still rattling around her brain.

_ “Once he’s been stunned, pick em’ both up. Drop the Portkey, send him off, and the girl is yours.” _

She had been given full approval to connect with a body that she hadn’t even seen in almost a year, the order itself coming down from on high; _ this _ was their night, _ this _ was their time. Hermione had burst forth from the underbrush with all the hesitation and trepidation of a rampaging Acromantula, and all in her own style. 

Leather pants and skirts replaced with form fitting cotton that was warm and just as black as her new eyes, her wild hair now a mixture of brown and coal black that she more often chose to tie behind her head with a strip of black satin than not, a heavy cloak draped over the singlet above her waist to complete the look. It was simple, it was functional, and above all else it was her own; a design and set that _ she _ had picked out, rather than taken second hand from her body’s former mistress.

Hermione swallowed dryly, bit her lip, and all but tore away the remaining bit of Cloak that hid the woman and the Boy beneath.

Automatic actions; her hand reaching out to drop the charmed coin against Harry’s chest, a sticking enchantment latching down as she whispered _ Finite, _ the Portkey moving to activate not even a second later in a pop and whoosh of air that left him flying off through time and space.

And then they were alone.

The distance left between them felt nigh insurmountable, Hermione staring at a Hermione who was not _ her, _ Bellatrix staring back at a Bellatrix who was not _ her. _

They both stood there, motionless, the aching portions of their misplaced souls crying out to be completed, crying out to be reunited, crying out to be whole and _ one. _ Hermione raised a trembling hand to trace against the Other’s lips, following the curving pout that she herself had once worn, and drawing upwards until she had cupped her cheek, the Other moving just as slowly and in all the same patterns.

The resounding crack of _ Apparition _ filled the Forest as they turned on silent heels for greener pastures.

\---

Their reappearance was marked by a jumble of tangled limbs, two bodies lying side by side and Sister-Not-Sister standing above them both.

“Our Lord sends his regards for a job well done,” Sister pulled them both apart before helping them to their feet, “Though I believe he’ll be a bit preoccupied and unable to congratulate you both. You’re to rest up, and await your next orders.” The woman turned to fix Bellatrix with a stare, something dark twisting up from beneath her eyes, “It’s good to have the real you back, though I must say that you transplant makes for charming,” she bit her lip and gave Hermione a look that spoke to their attempts to make a twisting knot instead of a branch along the Family Tree, “and _ enthusiastic _ company, almost as much as you.”

Hermione bared her teeth while growling out a low warning at the woman’s tone, aware that she was second fiddle and none too happy about that fact, nor the act of being called out on it. Truth be told she wasn’t _ truly _ upset at it; the words couldn’t put a damper on this moment, this reunion that had her soul _ singing _ now that Bellatrix was here, her mind alight and skin tingling as she stood on swaying feet.

But still.

Appearances must be kept after all; and she had built herself a rather fearsome reputation within the rather short stretch of time that she had been here.

Hermione reached out to drape an arm around Bellatrix’s - _ Her _\- shoulders, tugging the witch in closer to her side as she turned to mutter, “Yes, well we’ll see you later then Cissa, please tell the Elves to leave us alone, would you?”

She never heard if the witch replied or not, acquiesced or not, too preoccupied with the feeling of _ rightness _ that accompanied skin to skin contact, too absorbed in Bellatrix looking at her with a lopsided grin and feet hurrying up to keep pace with her rather frenzied walk. She led the witch back towards her - _ their _ \- room, throwing the doors wide open and hauling her inside at the same moment that she turned them around, the heavy wood shutting with a resounding shudder behind them. Once it was closed, once they were alone, she whipped out her wand and threw a quick silencing charm across the room, her crooked wand dropped off onto the dresser in the same moment that she reached up to wrap warm fingers around Bellatrix’s throat, and her lips pressing forward to capture the witch and taste her(self?) for the first time.

The action was bliss incarnate; one lip trapped up between her teeth, a warm tongue pushing out to swipe along overheated flesh in a request for access, the feeling of warm breath passing in the space between them. Clothes were lost soon enough, her black outfit joining a pile of black school robes and pretty red knickers that _ she _ certainly had never purchased. 

There was something intensely electrifying about their current position; her being able to look down at a body that had clearly once been her own but now was not. Something delightful about being the strongest person in the room, about having sharp enough teeth and strong enough claws to wield it all.

Her hand reached out to splay against Bellatrix’s chest, her fingernails digging points into the pallid skin that covered a furiously beating heart, both their chests rising in tandem as they panted through their desire. With one shift shove Hermione had Bellatrix pushed back against the bed, her knees folding as she fell down, an arm catching Hermione to drag her down with her. Hermione spread her legs apart to straddle the warm waist, hands reaching down to press against the comforter on either side of her head. She dipped low to catch Bellatrix’s bottom lip, body leaning forwards as she lowered herself onto elbows, fingers wrapping into the unruly curls of her hair, tugging and sucking against soft flesh as she did so.

Bellatrix’s hands reached out to grasp her about the waist, her body rocking upwards into Hermione as she did so. In response she released her prize and wove a string of silvered chains from bedpost to wrist with a wordless spell, pulling Bellatrix taut as she ground down against the plane of her stomach, her slickness spilling out to coat warm skin.

“Shall we then?”

_ “Yes.” _

\---

Three days managed to pass them both by in the blink of an eye; both rarely having left their bedchambers except for fitful moments where contact grew to be too much, their buzzing souls pushing them apart at the same moment that it pulled them further along towards completion, their raging minds fighting for control of one another.

And to rope Sister-Not-Sister into their games, albeit at a far less frequent pace than the witch would have liked.

Bellatrix turned out to be the weaker of them both; she knew this just as well as she knew her own body, knew Hermione’s, and though it pained some insignificant portion of her mind to find herself beneath the witch, it was still a well-earned position. Whatever Hermione had been before the switch and the subsequent breaking of her mind, she was _ that _ no longer. But she _ was _ assertive, dominant, strong enough to bind up new purpose beneath her raw form.

And _ powerful, _ the whole of her body turned into a machine that pulled energy from a broken soul, someone who took strength and solace from the respect that was given to her, someone with the leeway and the freedom to do as she pleased, when she pleased.

And Bellatrix had to admit that the young witch wore her body well, wore it like she was showing off a pretty dress; all her scars on display and maddened purpose tearing at all her edges. It made sense that when their Lord finally deigned to push against the fractured Light _ she _ would be there, _ she _ would be present to lead a charge that left her scooping up all those that she saw fit, taking bodies for testing and experiments that were dredged up from old notes written down by aged Necromancers and Mages of eras long past.

Even then, even watching her in action and knowing that she would come back to her, Bellatrix knew it wasn’t enough. Their burgeoning completeness wasn’t helped by the film that covered the spaces between their souls. It was, in its own way, too much, and yet still too little.

The War’s end found them both hidden in the midst of Black Manor, tied up between themselves with tongue and biting rope, their days spent searching for some remedy to their malady, but not a fix.

In this instance, at least.

The Department of Mysteries had capitulated quickly to the New Ministry; thousands of times and scrolls that were filled with arcane and ancient secrets all dumped into their rebuilt parlor, though only a hundred or so pertained to their predicament. She had to hand it to the Unspeakables, they were all far more interested in science and learning than the change of politics that wrote their checks, far more willing to cooperate so long as it gained them new and novel knowledge.

In the end most of those tomes and scrolls were useless, though a few were more than helpful enough to point them in the right direction.

Horcruxes; because of course it would come down to those. Two twinned shards of soul from the wrong bodies shoved down into the right hearts, an action that left them both panting, both cooling, their Lord standing above them with a smile on his face and bared amusement in his eyes, the twisting form of Nagini swaying side to side atop his shoulders as she observed them. It wasn’t painless, it wasn’t quick, but soon enough they had their ritual and their rewards.

They rose as one-

They spoke as one-

As the days passed on it became abundantly clear to their odd little family (Sister-Not-Sister and Sister-Found) that the persons they had been were well and truly One; one single soul split between two cores, one single Soul with enough space to fill them both from end to end, one single soul that spoke with two distinct voices more often than not. The Younger started conversation that the Elder would finish, an amalgamation of broken minds and shattered souls patched back together within the smothering confines of bodies that fought and changed as they sought to work themselves out.

One grew taller, the other older, and both paled rather than tanned, auburn and charcoal mixing into the barely tamed lengths of hair that seemed to curl and tangle back in on itself, a cackle spreading out beneath the cover of their Manor.

The War ended.

Hermione and Bellatrix ended with it.

But something new rose up from the ashes.


End file.
